Descent of the Shadows
by Blackgenius
Summary: After the fall of Sauron, the spirits of the Nazgul were scattered. Now, afer a thousand years of watchful peace, the Ringwraiths once again prepare assault on the free peoples of Middle Earth. Rated T to be safe. PLEASE read and review!
1. Shadows and Thoughts

**A/N:** Well here it is, Chapter 1. I'm so glad to finally get this one going. This was an idea i had a while ago, and it ended up coming out quite well. The next few chapters should come in quite quick sucsession, because I've already written them and i just have to edit and publish. Sorry the first few chapters are a bit short, i was sort of just getting started. Anyway here it is, and i hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I would really appreciate reviews. Now, enough of my boring chatter. On with the show!!!

**Disclaimer:** I am not Tolkien, and i do not own any of his work or characters.

**Summary:** After the fall of Sauron, the spirits of the Nazgul were scattered and broken. Now, after a thousand years of watchful peace, the terrible Ringwraiths begin to marshal forces once again against the free peoples of Middle Earth. This is their story.

**Shadows and Thoughts**

The Brown Lands lay quiet. The cold evening winds swept over the harsh, barren plain. All was silent except for a small rodent scuttling out from under a rock. It moved cautiously, wary of danger. After several seconds, it moved out in earnest, looking for food. It scuttled up a small hill, and its eyes lit up on a small tuft of grass. The rodent moved forward eagerly…. and stopped dead.

Fear, a black cloud of fear swept over the small creatures heart. Something was not right here. The rodent looked longingly at the patch of grass for another moment, and then turned away. He would not cross that path, though he did not quite understand why. Luckily for him, he never did.

Khamul did not know where he was. He did not really know what he was. All he knew was that he could not see, hear, smell, touch or taste, mind you, he had not been able to do the last one for many a year. He mentally cursed as he struggled to collect his thoughts. The last thing he remembered was…. oh yes, of course. The fall of Sauron. The defeat of the master he was eternally bound to. What had happened? It was…. yes it was the Numenorian Prince that had cut the ring from Sauron's hand as he had reached out to choke the Man to death. Then… pain, pain of the like he had never experienced in his life, mortal or immortal. And now he was here. He wondered what he was exactly. He obviously didn't have a body, ghost, flesh or armour. He supposed he must be some sort of floating consciousness. And that meant he did not have his ring. Khamul screamed inwardly. His ring, his ring! His gift, his curse! The very reason he was here now. Khamul felt that familiar longing he felt every time he did not have it with him. He hated himself for it. His ring, one of the Nine rings of power given as a so-called gift to the race of men, was the very reason he was bound to the powerful Maiar called Sauron. He sometimes wished that it had never come to him, and hated Sauron for enslaving him. But the power of his ring was too good an offer to turn down, and once the ring was his, darkness had never let go of him. Any bitter thoughts towards his master were few and far between, for the darkness of the one ring clouded the minds of those subject to its power.

Khamul brushed these unpleasant thoughts aside and instead concentrated on trying to regain some sort of form. He thought several incantations in the black speech. Nothing. Khamul would have screamed in frustration if he had had a mouth to do so. He would never get anywhere at this rate! Unless… it was an uninviting idea, but also very likely to work. Bracing himself, he began mentally chanting the words he had never wanted to here again:

_**Ash nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatuluk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul**_

He knew it had worked before he had finished. He felt himself changing, forming, as his wraith body took shape, hands, torso, legs, face, and finally, his shadowy crown, a mockery of his former rule. Khamul examined himself. The irony of it. The very words that had imprisoned him would also restore him.

Khamul looked around. He recognised his surroundings instantly. The Brown Lands. Few knew of the slaughter that had occurred on these plains or the reason little or nothing grew here. Casting one last look on the land that had once been his home, he slipped away to find his fellows, and the Master that surely needed him. As he glided over the plains, moving south, the small tuft of grass withered and died.

**A/N:** Well there's Chapter 1. As i said the next few should be coming very soon. PLEASE read and review!!! I'd love to hear all your views on this idea. Thanks a lot and enjoy the many chapters to come!!!

**NOTE ON NAMES OF THE NAZGUL. IMPORTANT: **None of the names I have used for the Nazgul are actually mine. The name Khamul, obviously, was invented by Tolkien. The names Er-Murazor, Uvatha, Ji Indur and Akorahil are all names used by a card collecting game produced by Iron Crown Enterprises, and are not actually canon. The name Gothmog is the name given to the Luitenent of Minas Morgul, who, in the book, is not actually an orc. Tolkien never specified what he actually was, but it was speculated that he might be a Nazgul, so I have adopted this idea. The name Morgomir is a name used by EA Games for the Battle for Middle Earth II, Rise of the Witch King, referring to another Nazgul who acompanied the Witch King to Angmar. The names I have used for the Witch King are Er-Murazor, which i have refered to above, and Isilmo, the name that is speculated might have been his name origionally. The story about his backgroud that I have included in Chapter 3 is also speculated to be the story of his past. The names Dakian and Coros, I am afraid to say, came from other people's fanfiction. The name Dakian is used by Shadowgirl1 in her story "The Untold Story of the Nazgul". I am very sorry for using the name you created, but it was such a good name and I have aknowladged that it was your work not mine. The other name, Coros, is a name that I have read in another fanfiction on another site. Unfourtunately I cannot find where it came from but i hope whoever created the name will forgive me for using it. If anyone knows who did use this name, please tell me in a review so i can aknowladge it. Thanks!


	2. The Dead Marshes

**A/N: **Well that was quick. Yes, here is Chapter 2. Again, this is also a bit short, but dont worry, they get longer. Oh, and sorry, I made a mistake with the chapter links so now the first chapter is just Chapter 1, instead of it being its actual name, Shadows and Thoughts, as i intended. No matter. I know the update has been quick so not a lot of people have had a chance to review yet, but when you do get a chance i would appreciate it. Thanks, and enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Tolkien's works, or his characters. I also do not own the names as I explained in the previous chapter.

**The Dead Marshes**

Dakian stood at the edge of the Emyn Muil, looking out over the cloudy mist that covered the Dead Marshes. The stench of still-rotting corpses could be smelt far and wide. And Dakian had a very acute sense of smell. Across the other side of these marshes, he knew; lay the land of Mordor, and beyond, the wreck of a master that was surely in need of his help. Dakian moved forward cautiously. He cursed himself for not attempting to learn a path through the marshes before. He could have made things a lot faster. He scanned the area and felt the evil that held this place. The slaughter that had occurred here he himself had witnessed…..

_The stench of blood was tremendous. Elves, Men and Orcs fell on every side, screaming in pain and fury. Arrows flew through the sky in every direction, piercing the ranks of both good and evil. Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor, wielded his mighty war spear, Agelos, as if it was weightless, and the orcs were fleeing in fear from his prowess. The majority were falling back to the black gate, but as panic ensured, Dakian saw the elvenking seize his chance and drive nearly three thousand orcs towards the treacherous marshes. Dakian saw him almost herd the orcs southwards, while his herald Elrond Half-elven moved the main army onward. Dakian raced after Gil-galad. The foolish elf thought he could drown the orcs in the marshes did he? Well let him try himself against hoards of the undead! Dakian reached the marshes to see a quarter of the orc bodies already floating in the swamp. He muttered several words in the black speech under his breath. Suddenly figures seemed to rise out of the water and swarm over the armies of the Last Alliance. Dakian saw Gil-galad watch in horror as his people were dragged into the dark water. Dakian moved forward and let out a bone chilling scream. Elves and Men cried out in fear and fled from the presence of the formidable Nazgul. Dakian uttered another spell and the spectres swarmed over the terrified warriors. The noise died down and the screaming grew softer until….. silence._

_Dakian stood alone, staring at the dead faces that floated in the water. He cursed. The elvenking was not among them. He had slipped away… Dakian moved back to the main battle. He would not fail his master again…_

It had not mattered that Gil-galad had survived that particular faze of the war. At the conclusion of the siege of Barad-dur, Dakian remembered Sauron emerge and crush the elvenking like a Halfling. And then he had turned to Elendil…..

Dakian was already in the service of Sauron when he came into contact with the ring. Unlike the others, he gave himself wholly and willingly to its darkness, accepting his new form and immersing himself in evil like none before him, hence his title, The Tainted One. Dakian was as unyieldingly loyal to his master as the Black Captain of the Nazgul, and followed his bidding no matter the cost.

As he stood overlooking the marshes, an idea formed in his head. He moved towards the marshes and spoke the words of an ancient morgul spell. The surface of the waters shimmered and figures began to rise out, rotting corpses of elves, men and orcs lifted themselves out of the water and stared at Dakian.

"Show me the way," he hissed.

The spectres began to move and Dakian followed them. As Dakian moved through the ranks of the dead, he immersed himself in the evil that he himself had created. The path twisted and turned as Dakian moved purposefully towards the Mountains of Shadow. Anyone observing this horrific scene would have most likely died of fear. But there was no-one to observe. The Dead Marshes had lain silent for almost a thousand years.

The path was long. It took Dakian almost three days to cross the whole way. When he was finally at the end, he turned back to the dead.

"When I call you," he whispered, "you will come."

The dead began to fade back through the fog as Dakian turned and moved on.

"I am coming master…."

**A/N:** Chapter 2 complete! Many more on the way! Please review when you get a chance.


	3. Fire and Water

**A/N: **Chapter 3 is now up! This one is a little bit longer, i fit more about the Nazgul in this one. Read and review please!

**Disclaimer: **I am not Tolkien, and i do not own his work.

**Fire and Water**

As the sun rose, the small town on the banks of the Anduin came to life. Early morning traders bustled around, the guard left their night patrol for a good sleep, and people started filtering into the streets. The small civilisation slowly began to wake up get on with another day.

Morgomir and Coros watched from a hill overlooking the village. Even if anyone had bothered to glance there, the two Nazgul were invisible to mortal eyes in their pure wraith form. Coros let out a soft hiss of displeasure. This land had once been part of his realm when he was a mortal king of Men. The sight of such a primitive town in his once powerful kingdom disgusted him.

"You wouldn't know the Numenorians were once great, the way these peasants act," he muttered. Morgomir shifted uncomfortably. He had once been a Numenorian himself before he had become a Nazgul, a strong commander of the armies of Tar-Minastir, the 11th high king of Numenor. He had been captured during a battle in Eriador and brought as a prisoner to Sauron, who had, rather than torture him for information, offered him a ring of power and promised him riches and power. Morgomir had at first refused, the noble blood of Numenor running strong in his veins, but soon Sauron's smooth words combined with the overpowering seduction of the ring bent his will. Morgomir then became one of the most powerful of the Nazgul, being both a cunning military genius and a powerful magician. Ironically, he was now one of the most evil an cruel of the Nazgul. However even he still remembered the splendour and glory of Numenor of old, and agreed with Coros that this was a poor excuse for a once mighty people.

"These are the descendants of the accursed elf-friends," he replied. "They have little of the valour and power of the Kings of old."

They both watched a beggar shuffled along the streets, looking up hopefully as a merchant passed. The merchant spat at him.

The two Nazgul looked at each other and silently agreed that this town was well deserving of the fate it was about to receive.

Seemingly from nowhere, Coros produced a long blackthorn staff with a sort of knot at the end. Raising his arms, he let out a high pitched scream and thrust the staff forward. A pure ball of flame burst from its tip, flying towards a nearby stable. Suddenly the air was alive with screams of fear as the fire spread unnaturally fast, burning all it touched. Horses ran wildly between houses, neighing in fear. Guards looked around wildly for attackers, then fled in terror as the blaze chased them. A small child sat crying in the street, bawling for its mother. Morgomir watched coldly as the fire consumed the area. The roof of a barn fell through; more screams could be heard as people were crushed…..

All was black. What was left of the town lay smoking in ruins. A lone figure staggered through the wreck, coughing and sobbing for his lost family. He was not unobserved. Morgomir and Coros watched as the man took in the scope of the ruin. He sank to his knees, as a man who has been through years of sorrows. Coros raised his staff again and pointed it at the shaking form. A black dart shot from the tip, sped through the air and buried it in the man's chest. The figure clutched his heart, and dropped to the floor, stone dead.

Coros and Morgomir turned their backs on the devastating scene, their eyes fixed on the Mountains of Shadow.

**********

Isilmo Er-Murazor, Black Captain of the Nazgul and Heir to Sauron the Great, watched the rapid flow of the river Greyflood. He stared grimly at the running water. The Greyflood had not always been like this. When Isilmo had first landed on the shores of Middle Earth, the river had been a calm stream, flowing gently between the lands Minhiriath and Enedwaith. He had established a realm in the land that was now called Arnor that stretched over nearly all of the most western lands of Middle Earth. Of all the kings of men that later became Nazgul, his realm had been the largest. However he had already become corrupt before Sauron approached him. Isilmo was the second child and only son of Tar-Surion. As was the tradition in Numenor, the oldest child, his elder sister, took up the sceptre of Numenor. But Tar-Telperien died childless, and Isilmo's son, Minastir took the sceptre instead of his father. Isilmo had been jealous of his sister from birth, and now that she was dead, he swiftly became passionately envious of his son. After a failed attempt on his life, Isilmo bitterly abandoned Numenor and sailed to middle earth and established a witch realm in the western lands. When Sauron became aware of him, he sent a messenger to him to offer him a ring of power. Isilmo accepted it quickly, eager for a further share of power. The next six months had been…. distasteful. He still remembered himself waste away as the ring took hold. He had gone to his new ally and friend Khamul for help, only to discover that he was in the same condition. He had fought it. He had fought the taint of the ring that was threatening to overpower him. He had been foolish. Too foolish to realise that the only way to survive was to let go. Too foolish to see that the only way was to remain on the winning side. The side of Sauron the Great.

The Black Captain felt a disturbance in the air. Immediately alert, he used his mind to search for the source. He followed its mental trail at it approached him. The Black Captain opened his eyes… to see a Nazgul standing before him.

"Captain," murmured Gothmog, kneeling before his superior.

"Rise Gothmog, The Dark Marshal," his master said. Gothmog stood gratefully.

"What is this?" Gothmog questioned, motioning to the wild rapids.

"An obstacle," replied his Captain grimly.

Gothmog glanced at the water and turned away. He hated the water. Of course, all the Nazgul disliked this particular weakness, but Gothmog's distaste of water went further….

_The waves crashed upon the deck. The wind howled, whipping Ren's hair all over his face. He tugged the rigging and let loose another sail. His muscles ached, and his legs screamed for a rest. But he could not rest._

_Another wave hit the side of the boat and Ren nearly lost his balance._

"_Steady there lad!" called his father._

"_I'm okay!" he yelled back, but he wasn't sure his father heard him over this racket._

_They were returning from a voyage to the coasts of Middle Earth, the wild great land to the east. They were retuning with a Man who called himself the ambassador of Middle Earth, who wished to meet with the Numenorian King, Tar-Minastir, to negotiate peaceful trade between their two nations. Unfortunately, the lesser man had been a nuisance from the start. He had no experience in sailing or navigation, but was as arrogant as you could get. They had had to force him below deck so he wouldn't get in the way and cause more trouble._

"_Land ahead!" called the man in the crow's nest. They had reached Numenor. However, the wind and waves were to strong for them to dock at the closest point. They would have to sail half way around the island. As Ren began to turn, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, someone appearing from the hatch. That bloody fool! Ren wanted to force the man back down, but could not leave his post. The man stepped onto the deck and moved towards Ren's father. Over the howling wind Ren heard him say something like "Let me help you."_

_The world seemed to move in slow-motion as Ren watched the man pull on a rope and release. The boom went flying halfway across the boat towards the two men. The first ducked. Ren's father was not so quick. The boom hit him square in the face and Ren watched him fly overboard and into the water. He did not surface._

"_FATHER!"_

They had returned to Numenor a few hours later. Ren had ordered the imprisonment of the man, and had told the king that he had assassinated his father. The king, after hearing several accounts of the event, concluded that though the man was obviously and idiot, he had not intended to kill Ren's father. Ren flew into a rage and killed the man. Soon after he attempted to kill the king. He escaped imprisonment and fled to Middle Earth, filled with evil thoughts and plots for revenge. As he arrived, Sauron saw his chance and welcomed the Numenorian with open arms. Ren quickly fell into his service, and was soon given a ring of power. Ren was now so blinded by darkness; he had little strength or will to fight the power of the ring, and soon joined the shadows. It was then that Sauron renamed him Gothmog, after the Great Balrog who had once been a fellow Maiar.

Gothmog now looked distastefully at the running water.

"We could go north," he muttered.

The Black Captain smiled. "Oh I don't think that will be necessary," he said, and his eyes gleamed red as he looked across the river. Raising his hand, he chanted a morgul spell of his own invention. There was and ear-splitting crack and the river began to freeze over. Gothmog could see, in the water, the diverse life freezing and dying. The running came to a standstill, and now a bridge of ice stood before them. Gothmog turned to his Captain.

"Very nice," he hissed.

The Black Captain nodded and began to cross. Gothmog followed. They were getting closer….

**A/N: **Well there it is. I just wanted to incorperate a bit of background about the Nazgul in this chapter. Those of you who think the leadup is dragging on a bit, dont worry, next chapter we get somewhere. All reviews are appreciated. Thanks!


	4. The Land of Shadow

**A/N: **Chapter 4! I'm still posting chapters at a fast rate, but if you want that to continue then please review! This is chapter that really sets the stage for the rest of the story, so pay attention. Now, on with the show!

**Disclaimer: **I am not Tolkien, and do not own his work. I do not intend to make profit out of this story.

**The Land of Shadow**

The black shape of the ruins of Barad-dur loomed over the Plateau of Gorogoth. Nine figures stood before the mountainous shape. They were cloaked in black, and their faces could not be seen beneath their hoods.

"He is here," hissed Khamul.

The Nine moved forward, their eyes sweeping over the once great fortress. Shadows flitted around them, voices whispered oddly through nothingness. As they reached the foot of what was once the stairs of Barad-dur, a disturbance seemed to penetrate the air. Smiling slightly, the Black Captain nodded and the Nine began to chant the words they knew so well:

_**Ash nazg durbatuluk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatuluk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul**_

The air seemed to be taking shape. A figure was forming in the dark surroundings. The figure towered over the Nazgul, darkness seemed to be emitting from it. Black and terrible, Sauron stood before them.

Sauron moved forward slowly, staring down at his servants. His red eyes stood out, a glowing contrast against his black shadowy figure. The Nine kneeled before him, eyes cast down in reverence to their master.

"Rise Nazgul."

It was a command, spoken with all the authority of the Valar. The Nazgul rose, still with their heads bowed.

"We have been set back," he announced. "My ring has been lost, and the heirs of my enemies have survived." His tone was not accusing, but there was again that air of authority to it that caused all who heard to bow their heads in shame.

"The heir's of Elendil survived," he repeated, and now his voice thundered across the vast plains of Gorgoroth.

The Nazgul spoke not a word, staying absolutely still. Sauron moved forward slowly. He extended a shadowy hand. There, in his palm, lay the Nine Rings.

Still the Nazgul did not move, but there desperation to once again possess their rings could almost be smelt on the filthy air.

"The kingdoms of men and elves shall be destroyed," he whispered.

If the Nazgul had proper bodies, they would have shivered.

"Isilmo," called Sauron. "Step forward, Black Captain of the Nazgul."

The Black Captain of the Nazgul stepped forward.

"The North Kingdom of the Dunedain holds the sceptre of Anuminas," his Master announced. "There is the line of Isildur," he said, and the heat of his anger seemed to radiate from the dark figure. "The line will end. The sceptre will be broken. The kingdom will be destroyed."

"I will not fail you Master," whispered Isilmo.

Sauron stretched out his hand, and slowly, painfully slowly, handed the Chief of the Nazgul his ring.

He turned to Khamul.

"In the forest of Greenwood," he began, "resides Thranduil, Elvenking of Rhovanion. He is the kinsman of Thingol, whose daughter stripped me of much of my power during the reign of my great master, Melkor. The forest will be raised to the ground, the elves will be killed or taken prisoner, the Elvenking will be slain. I will join you in the southernmost part of that forest soon. The woodland realms will fall."

"I will gather forces and wait for you Master."

Slowly, Khamul was surrendered his ring.

"Dark Marshal," said Sauron. Gothmog stepped forward.

"The realm of Mordor is the key to victory over the free peoples. Our old strength must be regained. The name of Mordor is a name that must be feared over all the lands of Middle Earth. The Kingdom of Gondor has set watches over our borders. These watches must be discouraged. The tower of Morgul must be reclaimed."

Gothmog crossed an arm across his chest. "The Numenorian realm of Exile will fall, and the Tower of the Moon will be the Tower of Sorcery."

Sauron nodded and inch by inch, extended his hand bearing Gothmog's ring of power.

Sauron then moved on to Uvatha.

"The kingdom of Harad is broken, but their hatred for the Numenorians is not yet forgotten. Fuel their wrath, kindle their anger and their service shall be returned to us."

The once great lord of Harad declared the betrayal of his country. "The Haradrim will kneel before us, master"

And slowly, oh so slowly, Uvatha's ring was returned to him.

Sauron turned to Morgomir.

"The destruction of the North Kingdom will not be easy. Both strategy and sorcery will be needed. You will supply both of these to your chief."

Morgomir knelt. "We will destroy the North Kingdom, and you will have power in both the north and the south."

Morgomir was finally reunited with his ring.

"The power of the Nazgul should not wane," declared Sauron. "An army of beings like unto yourselves must be created. Dakian, you, as the Tainted One, will taint every living thing you find."

"The world will be but shadows which you command," announced Dakian.

The twisted Nazgul was slowly given his ring.

"Akhorahil," muttered Sauron. "Five Maiar have entered Middle Earth, who call themselves the Istiri. They wander the land in the guise of old men. They must be discouraged. Turn which of them that you can. Dispose of the rest."

"There are many Maiar in this world, but none shall stand higher than you," stated Akhorahil.

You could almost here his inward scream as Sauron very gradually handed him his ring.

"Ji Indur, Lord of Rhun," called Sauron.

The Nazgul stepped forward.

"The Easterlings are the most deadly warriors in Middle Earth. They have served me and my Master before, they shall do so again. With them you will destroy all lands east of the Misty Mountains."

Ji Indur nodded. "The East will conquer the West."

Ji Indur had his ring again at last.

Sauron turned to the final Nazgul.

"Coros," he whispered, "you are about to be given your ring, as all your fellows have before you. You have your rings. I do not have mine." Sauron's voice became suddenly cold, cold enough to leave a mortal man frozen in death. As it was, the Nazgul cowered before Sauron's wrath.

"This will be your task Coros. You will be my spy. Find out who the leaders of Elves and Men are; find out what they know. Find my ring. Find my ring, and you will be rewarded with great power under the rule of Sauron the Great."

"Your ring will be returned to you master, and you shall rule all of Middle Earth."

The last of the nine rings was surrendered.

"Be swift, Nazgul," whispered Sauron. "I will not forgive failure easily. Do what is to be done."

"We will not fail master," said the Black Captain.

Sauron turned, and darkness engulfed his spirit body. Slowly, he faded from view, and the Nazgul were alone once more.

**A/N: **Well what do you think??? This chapter was particularly difficult in portraying Sauron. Its harder than you'd think writing a villian like Sauron. Please review!


	5. A Kingdom Crumbling

**A/N: **Next chapter up. Sorry this one is also a little bit short. Anyway enjoy and please review.

**Disclaimer: **I am not Tolkien and I do not own his work.

**A Kingdom Crumbling**

King Mavegil of Arthedain walked slowly from his council room, rubbing his tired eyes. Council had been, as usual, an exhausting ordeal. The lords of Cardolan and Rhuadur were always arguing, fighting over land, possession and power. But more than anything, it was the possession of the great watch tower of Amon Sul, which held the great palantir of Arnor.

He supposed it was inevitable, being on the border of the three regions of the kingdoms of Arnor. As Arthedain were already in possession of the other palantir in Annuminas, it was right that one of the other Dunedain tribes should be in possession of the other. But the arguments were becoming fierce and bitter, and Mavegil knew deep down that this was the beginning of the end of friendship between the three regions.

Mavegil looked out over the balcony of the keep of Fornost. He sighed. The real truth was that the kingdom of Arnor should never have been split into three. Arnor had once been whole and strong. What he saw now, was a kingdom crumbling.

It was a horrifying thought, but it was the truth. The worst thing for a king was to watch his kingdom crumble from within, not from cause of war, but from dissention among his own people. He didn't want Cardolan and Rhuadur as enemies or even just less than friendly neighbours. If the land was to come under attack, three small, weak, separate kingdoms would be much easier to overrun than one large strong one. But there was more to it than that. He needed Cardolan and Rhuadur simply for financial reasons. Their trade and economy was based on their relationship with each other. The destruction of this relationship, or even a fracture in it, could throw each of them into semi financial crisis. In any case, the bottom line was, they needed him and he needed them. But no matter how much he hinted this, the other leaders and nobles were unable to set aside their differences for the sake of their nation.

If Mavegil was honest with himself, he often was tempted to claim the entirety of Arnor for the Sceptre once again. But he knew that was not possible. The other lords of Cardolan and Rhuadur had become too comfortable with their power, and were unwilling to relinquish it. There would be an outcry if he even suggested it. The other two kingdoms would probably rise up in revolt against him. Separately of course, he thought ruefully.

Mavegil was old. He could feel it in his bones. Deep down, he knew he didn't have long to go. The fear of death had crept up on him often recently, but it was nothing compared to the fear of leaving the kingdom in its current state. His son, Argeleb, was ripe for kingship, and Mavegil hoped to the heavens that he would be able to bring the kingdoms of Arnor together before disaster struck, one way or another.

The King brushed these thoughts aside as a page approached. The young man looked as though he had been running. Mavegil frowned. Something told him that what he was about to hear was not good.

"Sire," gasped the man. "The scouting party has returned…"

The page was referring to the Arthedain Outriders. They were a party of light cavalry, charged with scouting the kingdom and detecting any threats. They made regular patrols of the boarders, and rarely visited Fornost unless when bearing urgent news.

"And?" enquired Mavegil. The pages eyes dropped and he produced a sack cloth containing a large bulky item.

"The horses returned sire… along with this."

The page lifted an object out of the bag and Mavegil resisted the urge to recoil.

It was a single, human head.

**A/N: **Well, what do you think? This chapter was filling in a gap a bit, but I wanted to give an idea about the state of the Kingdom of Arnor at this time. It really sets the stage for the northern wars. Anyway, hope you liked it. Please read and review!


	6. The Istari

**A/N: **Now for all you fans of the movies who are wondering if you are ever going to see one of the characters you know so well, this is the chapter. We see two new characters that featured in the movies (and from the title, I don't think it will be difficult to work out who they are). These won't be the only characters from the movies that will be making an appearance. I think it would be very likely that you will get at least a glimpse of many of your favourite elves sometime in this story, and you might even get an appearance of Aragorn near the end. No promises though, I cant be sure at this stage. Now without furthur ado, let the show begin!

**Disclaimer: **I am not Tolkien (most unfourtunately), and therefore do not own his works, his world, or his characters. So don't make any accusations!!!

**The Istari**

Tharbad was not a large town. Everyone knew everyone. As a result of this, everyone knew when there was someone new in town. In this case, five new and rather unusual characters had entered the quiet riverside town.

No one had any idea where they came from. The names they used were strange and unfarmiliar, and while they were obviously men, they spoke very differently to the rough, casual language of the small fishing town. Added to that, it also seemed like an odd thing for a group of such old men were travelling as such as they were, with simple cloaks, a few small packs, and twisted wooden staffs. However if any of these peculiarities were bothering anyone, it wasn't showing. One of the golden rules in a small town such as Tharbad was to keep to yourself. Oh have acquaintances, of course, but mind your own business, and so will everyone else. Hopefully, an outsider would do the same, and could pass through without any trouble. The town was hoping that these particular strangers would do the same. They didn't need that sort around there.

The barman looked nervously at his most recent customers. The five old men had walked in barely two minutes ago, pleasantly asked for a table, and when directed to one, had very nicely thanked him and had been chatting contently between themselves ever since. Despite their overall innocent appearance, there was something perculiar about the group that the barman couldn't quite place. They were polite enough, certainly, but still… when any of them spoke, he felt as though a wave of authority and control radiated from them… it was a queer feeling, and caught the barman quite of guard each time, even now when he'd come to expect it. And when they talked… it was as though the came from a different world. Despite their pleasant and innocent appearance, their mere presence made him feel insecure and unsettled. He'd heard they were moving on tomorrow. He couldn't say he was sorry about the fact.

Gandalf twirled his staff between his fingers, examining the knots in the wood. His companions continued to talk merrily and sip their pints. To all appearances they were just an ordinary group of travellers. But underneath the rim of the old pointy hat and the locks of matted hair, Gandalf's eyes swept across the room, missing nothing. The two blue orbs gleamed with a light of intelligence and calm. After several minutes, he perceived that no-one was too interested in them, and helped himself to his own evening drink. They were leaving tomorrow, moving south along the coast towards the land of Gondor. He couldn't say he'd miss this town. Not exactly the friendliest of places.

The Istari, or the Scorcers, had come across the seas from Valinor to Middle Earth, to guide and protect the people after it was deemed by the Valar that the land should not be abandoned totally. The five Maiar were charged to work from within to bring the people of Middle Earth to good, and protect them from the many evils that existed in the land. And above all, they were to keep out a watch for, and if necessary, fight against, the enemy of the free people's of the world, Sauron. The Istari were planning to travel Middle Earth, learn the ways of its peoples and the fate of its enemies, and then to separate into the different corners of middle earth to achieve their task. They had been chosen very carefully by their masters. Throwing five powerful Maiar into the treacherous lands of the east was no small deal. Their task was not to rule, but to serve, and watch over, and it was not a task that should be given to just anyone. On this basis were the Istari chosen. First was Curunir, or Saruman, the wise. He had better grasp of the nature and essence of evil than many, and was capable of taming and subduing it. Second was Mithrandir, or Gandalf. Olorin he was called of old, and he was great among the Maiar, very wise and powerful, but also compassionate and merciful. Third was Radagast, the brown one, who was a tamer of beasts and a lover of the woods. And finally, Alatar and Pollando, the blue. They were the most mysterious of the group, able to see visions. They were also the masters of riddles and spells.

Alone, each one of them was far from perfect. Together, they were a wise and powerful force, and more than capable of carrying out the task given to them.

"So next we go South," said Radagast, breaking the short silence.

"I think that would be our best bet," agreed Gandalf. "If there has been any activity in Mordor since the Great Battle, Gondor will know."

"Agreed," declared Saruman. "We shall travel south towards Osgiliath, and then from there we shall enter Mordor ourselves. From there, the path is unsure, though I believe it would be wise to investigate the other civilisations of Men in the east. They were troubled, no doubt, by the wars of Sauron, and if any of the free peoples need our guidance, it would be them."

"It would certainly be prudent," said Alatar, "though I think it would be best to alert the elves of our presence in Middle Earth. Embarking on our quest without their aid would, I believe, be an unwise move."

"We shall approach the elves in due course," said Saruman with a glance in Alatar's direction, but I believe our first priority is to enter Gondor. If they have no knowledge of the activities of Sauron, then they may have knowledge of the location or the possible locations of the ring. This matter is of deep importance, as we all know, and as Isildur took the ring, and then lost it before he crossed the boarder, I think the Gondorians would know more of this than the elves."

Alatar bowed his head, conceding the point.

"To Gondor it is then," agreed Gandalf. The others all nodded their confirmation as their meal arrived. As they ate, they discussed more of the possibilities for the later stages of the journey, and the possible allies they could gain, and the most prudent places of residence once they had sufficiently explored Middle Earth.

"Well, after that most delightful meal, I feel ready to rest myself," announced Gandalf. The others nodded and affirmed that they would be joining him soon. Gandalf rose to leave, and felt his back muscles moan in protest. Gandalf grunted.

Why did the Valar send me here in this feeble human form, prone to every mortal ache and pain?

The following morning the five prepared to leave, packing their small array of belongings, thanking the innkeeper, and wearing their long billowing cloaks. As they exited the town, staffs in hand, walking purposefully towards the hazy shadow of the White Mountains in the distance, they were not unobserved. A cloaked figure watched from the shelter of the shadows of nearby woods, Blending into the darkness of the trees. And as the five travellers made south for the country of Gondor, Akorahil slipped between the shadows and began to follow.

**A/N:** Well? What's the verdict? I enjoyed throwing the Istari into this chapter, they are important in parts of this story and I think this was a good way to introduce them. Hope you enjoyed it! Reviews would be appreciated!


	7. Ancient Remnants

**A/N: **I meant to post this earlier, but my plate has been a bit full at the moment so I didn't really get a chance. But here it is at last, Chapter 7. Oh and I would just like to thank Skessa for giving me the referance to the name Coros. It was used in the story "Nazgul Tales" by Murasaki99. I don't think it is a story from , and I couldn't work the link to it, but no matter. Anyway here it is. Enjoy, and please review!

**Disclaimer: **Despite my greatest efforts, I have so far failed to steal Tolkien's identity, and as a result i don't really own any of his stuff. I will inform you if this changes.

**Ancient Survivors**

A chill swept slowly over the southern eaves of Greenwood. Night was falling. The enormous twisted branches creaked in the cool evening wind. The silent perimeter of trees at the rim of the wood was broken as a soft slithering displaced several leaves at the rim of the forest floor. A cloaked figure stood at the edge of the ancient forest, his black robes waving ever so slightly in the wind. After a moments pause, the figure slipped between a gap in the mass of mighty trunks and let the darkness of the forest swallow them out of sight.

Khamul looked around. Despite the darkness of the forest, the wraith saw quite clearly. Quickly he began to move through the forest, almost gliding, moving silently, effortlessly through the sea of ancient twisted trees. The leaves and tufts of grass on the forest floor withered as he past. Khamul did not really know what he was looking for. He just let his instincts, and whispering mind guide him. Soon, he knew, he would find something. Something that would, perhaps, lead him to whatever he was after.

There was a small scuttling sound to his left. Khamul whipped around, sword drawn soundlessly from its sheath. Beneath his hood, his red eyes scanned the line of trees, searching for a sign of movement. There it was again. The sound of something scuttling along the mess of leaves that covered the forest floor. Something shifted slightly in the darkness. Fast as a snake, Khamul darted between the trees and grappled the unknown creature, positioning the point of his sword inches away from the beings bulk. After a few seconds of tense, silent struggle, the shape relaxed. Khamul at last had a chance to look at the creature. He stared, hissing in surprise. Lying on the forest floor before him was an enormous spider.

Very slowly, without any sudden movements, Khamul placed the edge of his sword against the massive creature's belly. The message was clear enough to the beast. It remained motionless.

Khamul's mind raced. There was only on thing this creature could be. He remembered well the tale of Melkor, his destruction of the Trees, and his journey to Middle Earth. One had travelled with him, a female Maia, in the form of a giant spider. Ugloint. Both the forces of good and evil remembered the name with dread. When she had been driven away by Melkor after attempting to steal the Silmarils, she had retreated to the dark places of the world, breeding and filling the darkest corners of the land with her filth. Khamul now realised he could be dealing with the spawn of a fully fledged Maia. The next steps had to be taken with the upmost care, he knew. Cautiously, he extended his whispering consciousness towards the creature. He touched its mind, and was astounded by what he found. He had rarely come across such a complex and intelligent mind as this being possessed. Choosing his words very carefully, Khamul began to speak.

"What brings you here, spawn of Ugloint, great arachnid, devourer of light?"

To his great surprise, after a moment's hesitation, the spider answered.

"Once a being was created, great and powerful. Eight legs she had, and eight talons on each. White creatures came, with white hair, and shone with great white light. They brought white hot blades to her, which cut off two of her eight legs, and smashed all of its talons. The great creature fled, but the white hunters pursued. They cut off two more of her legs, and smashed their talons, but still, the one continued on. It outstripped the hunters, and hid in dark caves. Two more of its legs died, and the creature could no longer continue. But before the white hunters caught up, she hid her remaining legs where none of the hunters could ever find it. And so at last the great beast died, but still, its legs remained hidden, until they grew, and became thorns in the sides of the hunters, of whom some remained in the land. And ever since have the hunters been at war with the remains of the great creature, who had the foresight to leave her legacy behind."

Khamul understood instantly. The spider was, in her own way, telling the story of her mother and how her family was hunted down. This spider must be one of the daughters of Ugloint, represented as one of the legs.

"So your mother hid you," said Khamul with an inward smile. "And you came here, perhaps, to seek vengeance against the elves?"

All eight of the spiders eyes bored into the emptiness beneath his hood, and he knew he'd gained the spider's trust.

"My name is Grisha," it hissed. "I am the mother of my clan and family. We came here to devour the elves that hunted my mother and killed my siblings. We have been here for thousands of years, quietly residing here. The elves fear to go to this part of the forest."

"And the other leg…?" enquired Khamul, remembering the riddle-story.

"Shelob," Grisha replied. "I have not seen my sister in many years, and I fear that will not change."

"You hate the elves, do you not Grisha?" whispered Khamul. An idea began to form in his mind, but it would require the most careful and subtle work against the most unpredictable of creatures, feeding the right hatred, fuelling the right anger.

Grisha let out a hiss of displeasure.

"The elves have hunted us," she replied. "They have burned us like animals, they strike us with their white-hot blades. They killed my sisters, and brought about the death of my great mother. Yes, I hate the elves."

"Would you like to hunt them?" asked Khamul, pressing his advantage. "Would you like to hurt them, to devour them? To see them burn in their beloved forest, to watch them snap like twigs under the combined force and power of both yours and mine strength and numbers? Would you like them smashed, and ripped apart, to provide food for you and your family?"

This time Grisha's hiss was one of pleasure.

"Yes."

Under his hood, the Shadow of the East smiled.

"Tell me Grisha," he whispered. "What do you know of Sauron the Great?"

**A/N: **I particulary enjoyed writing this chapter. I wanted to show how the realm of Dol Goldur was established. Khamul will be getting a lot of chapters devoted to him, in fact he'll probably get the most. Please review and I hope you're enjoying the story!


	8. Blood on Ice

**A/N: **Well it has been a few days, but I've managed to get the next chapter up and running. This one is quite a bit longer than the last few have been, and there's the first major battle scene a well. Anyway hope you enjoy it, and please review.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Tolkien's writings, and I don't intend to make a profit from these stories.

**Blood on Ice**

A lone figure on a tall, dark horse rode slowly through the mass of snow and ice which covered the outskirts of the Northern Wastes. It pushed relentlessly through the harsh, cold blizzard that blew over the snow-covered plains. Whoever it was, was somehow managing to survive the cold wearing nothing more than a simple tattered hooded cloak. Any normal person should have died from the chill.

But Morgomir did not feel the cold.

He continued, pushing his horse up the steep snowy slope of a hill. The hill continued for several minutes, until suddenly, the horrendous noise of the blizzard stopped, and Morgomir found himself in a narrow, twisting valley, sheltered from the freezing wind by the tall hills that ran parallel on each side. Morgomir urged his horse along the twisted path at a slow canter. Morgomir's eyes swept the surroundings, searching for any threats. In a deserted lost valley like this, there were sure to be many dark creatures lurking in dark places. But so far, he had come through unopposed.

Morgomir let his horse carry him up the winding path for nearly an hour. The path twisted and turned, with many forks and turnoffs. Morgomir was no fool. He knew precisely where he was going.

It was beginning to grow dark when the path opened into a clearing. A majestic, yet tragic sight, met his eyes. An enormous site of ruins came into view. Morgomir could see, through the toppled battlements and smashed gates, the former majesty of the structure. Great towers had once stood, tall and strong, forged from iron and stone. The great oak door was broken and disintegrated, hanging hopelessly off its hinges. The walls were weathered and unstable, crumbling where they stood. Much of the structure was frozen over, covered in ice. Morgomir, an experienced war captain and strategist, knew that in its prime, this fortress would have been almost completely impervious to attack, its structure built for the certainty of attack. If it was rebuilt, Morgomir knew, it would be ideal for what the Black Captain had in mind. It was, after all, his fortress.

Another rider had entered the clearing. Morgomir had noticed, and did not move, for he knew who had joined him. This meeting had been arranged.

When the rider had approached, Morgomir dismounted and knelt before his superior.

"Captain," he murmured.

"Rise, Morgomir," replied the Black Captain.

Morgomir stood, watching his captain intently.

"Well?" enquired Er-Murazor.

"It will do very well Captain, once it is reforged," affirmed Morgomir.

"It is as I expected," said Er-Murazor with a nod. He looked around, as if sniffing the air.

"The Black Numenorians are aware of our presence," he said with a glance behind him.

"Do you intend to recruit them?" asked Morgomir.

The Black Captain nodded, and veered his reins to his left. Craning his neck back to look at his fellow, he said, "I have acquired us a new ally. Rogash, a warrior troll of the North has agreed to aid us in return for gold and meat. His troll brethren will give us much of the brute force needed to break the Northern Kingdom. The Black Numenorians will not so easily succumb to rule. They live by code. They have been challenged, and now they answer that challenge. We must first defeat them to gain their trust and their loyalty."

Morgomir nodded. He understood. Wasting no more time, the two riders reined their horses and rode to meet the challenge.

********

Riding full pelt against the wind, his robes flying about him, the Black Captain urged his steed to draw him closer to the lure of battle. Victory here was essential, and the Black Numenorians were many. They were fearsome and deadly warriors, and would make powerful allies.

And enemies.

Up ahead the Black Captain could see Rogash ordering his Hill-troll army into a march, urging them to the lust of battle. The two riders caught up with them quickly, and together, the three of them led the charge towards the first battle of Angmar.

As the path widened, up ahead, the Numenorians appeared from around the bend. Isilmo guessed there were probably hundreds, perhaps thousands of warriors swarming towards them, waving their weapons and screaming their war cries. Letting out his own blood-chilling scream, the Black Captain drew his sword and charged into the oncoming rush of men. In the few moments before the collision, he glimpsed one or two of the faces. Some of them looked absurdly young.

There was an almighty crunch as the forces collided. Screams and roars pierced the air as men and trolls were hacked and stabbed. The Black Captain slashed at an oncoming warrior, piercing his helm. Isilmo watched blood pour down the man's face before he moved on to his next victim. He sensed Morgomir behind him, uttering screams of bloodlust and hewing down the enemy with ease. He saw the massive figure of Rogash ahead of him, mowing down men as he sprinted through the masses, slashing left and right with his enormous broadsword. Finding that he was for the moment, unopposed, he stopped for a moment to examine the scene. Now that he looked closely, he realised how ill equipped both sides actually were. Many of the Numenorians carried pitchforks and rusty short swords, while the trolls mostly carried picks, and some simply fought with their bare hands, swinging left and right and knocking men into the air. The blade of the Black Nunenorians was broken, but when he had gained their allegiance, the blade would be reforged.

If he gained their allegiance.

********

Morgomir, like his Captain, had stopped to take a breather as the trolls forced there way through the sea of men. Now he surveyed the scene with a critical eye. Despite the sheer strength of the trolls, they actually were very crude and inexperienced fighters. The Black Numenorians were becoming used to their predictable ways, and being more nimble and agile, were able to dodge their attacks and often then deliver a killer blow of their own. Despite their lack of equipment, they were a far more efficient fighting force than the trolls, and as Morgomir now realised, this was becoming a telling factor in this battle, so telling that it could, in fact be the deciding factor if the situation was not addressed.

Making his decision, he rode in haste towards his superior.

"Sound the retreat," he screamed over the din.

The Black Captain stared at him coldly.

"We can't do that," he replied forcefully. "We need these troops. We can't surrender."

"I'm not suggesting surrender," said Morgomir, shaking his head. "We need to reorganise. Our ranks are a mess. They're picking us to pieces!"

Morgomir's superior turned to the scene of battle. After a few seconds, Morgomir saw him acknowledge the point. With a swift glance back at Morgomir, the Black Captain cantered full pelt towards the line of trolls.

Morgomir, left alone, was thinking fast. The Black Numenorians were not going to be defeated so easily by a small rabble of disorganised trolls. They needed something that would crush their morale. Something that would destroy their will to fight, to hold out. There was only one answer. Both he and his Captain would enter the field of battle.

Alone.

Unassisted.

Morgomir knew that they had both the ability, and the weapons to carry out the task at hand. Morgomir allowed himself a twisted smile. The mortals had no idea what they were about to walk into.

********

Nurath wiped the blood from his sword, staring around at the scene before him. Despite the brute force of the trolls, their casualties had been less than expected. The had been able to take a break as the trolls retreated to reorganise under the orders of their anonyms commander.

Nurath called his men back into action as two mounted figures slowly approached. They were garbed entirely in black, and carried long, thin swords, which were held loosely at their sides with an air of knowing how to use them. Nurath frowned. Something was terribly wrong. There was a air of tension and foreboding as the two warriors approached. Did they wish to make a truce? Nurath doubted it. Suddenly, for the first time in his life, he felt truly afraid.

Desperately afraid. The sight of the two figures riding ever so slowly towards them, death surely written behind the eyes he could not see, chilled him to his very bones. He vaguely noticed that his men, who had moments ago been jeering at the two warriors for emerging alone, were now similarly affected. All was silent except for the soft slow hoof beats of the beasts bearing the cloaked riders. And then, barely metres away from the lines of men, the horses stopped.

Fear clutched the army. The riders had not spoken a word, and nor had they touched the reins. Could these strange warriors somehow control animals?

Seconds past. Then minutes. Nurath could hear his own heartbeat in the silence.

Then, seemingly from nowhere, a blood curdling scream filled the air. The men yelled in fear and dropped their weapons, Nurath doing the same. Then as he looked up, he realised his mistake. The two rides were charging full pelt at the lines of currently unarmed men, drawing long daggers as they did. Nurath saw the riders reach his men and stab at the frontline with their daggers.

There were screams of pain from the stabbed men. Nurath watched as their faces went blue, watched them gurgle and froth at the mouth, and then fall to the ground, twitching uncontrollably. After several moments, the warriors lay still.

But not for long.

Nurath watched, frozen in horror, as the corpses rose, dazed and demented, eyes blank and staring, and turned to their own ranks. Without a moments pause, they began hacking and stabbing at their own comrades. The screams of the men struck by there fellows were unheeded as the two warriors continued slashing blindly at their own army, headless to the wounds they received in return. Their form now was barely solid, almost ghostlike, and as they stabbed and hacked at their own ranks, the Black Numenorians utter horror broke them.

And they fled.

Like whipped dogs, they fled from the ghostly presence of the two warriors, screaming in fear, discarding their weapons. There was a mass trample as the men scrambled up the slope they had come from, desperate to escape the wraithlike beings that would not die…

It was then, that Nurath saw, out of the corner of his eye, the trolls charge for a second time. Roaring for more bloodshed, they threw themselves into the confused ranks of the Black Numenorians, crushing them under their immense strength. Nurath sighed as he realised the battle was lost. Blowing his war horn, he ordered his men to retreat. He himself remained where he was. He didn't want those mysterious black riders as his enemies. It was time to make an arrangement…

********

The Black Captain watched as the Black Numenorian line buckled under the brunt force of the trolls. The battle was won, and he needed the surviving warriors, which were still many, for a large part of his army. He turned to Rogash.

"Get your men out of there," he ordered.

The massive troll stared at the Chief of the Nazgul for a moment, then nodded stiffly, and began bellowing orders over the battlefield. Isilmo turned away. He would have to find some way to show Rogash his place.

He roused himself as he saw a lone figure standing at the head of his bloodied army. Their commander, he supposed. He turned to Morgomir.

"I will approach him alone," he said softly. Morgomir nodded, accepting his Captain's decision.

The Chief of the Nazgul gathered his reins, and then paused.

"Well done," he whispered. He paused, and then added, "Lieutenant."

With that, the Black Captain steered his horse to the left and rode towards the Black Numenorian commander.

He reached him within seconds. Isilmo stared the man up and down. He was obviously full of fear, but was doing well not to show it.

There was a moment of silence, before the man spoke.

"What are you, Dread-lord?"

The Black Captain knew his answer. He knew how to gain this man's allegiance, along with the allegiance of his followers.

"I am the future. I am your future. Your fate lies in my hands. I could slay you all in an instant with a wave of my hand. And yet, I have not done so."

The Black Captain's voice was cold, cold like the dead of winter.

"I am here, not to destroy you, but the kingdom that is rightfully yours and mine. The North Kingdom of the Dunadain is half broken, and I intent to remove the weak kings from their thrones, and give the land to the people who deserve it. I am willing to provide you this land if you will aid me in conquering it. If not, you will perish in this cold wasteland like many before you. Make your choice."

The man hesitated. The Black Captain could see him weighing the possibilities in his head. Isilmo knew there was only one option he could take. He would realise that to very soon.

After a brief moment, the man looked up at the mounted Nazgul.

"If you can promise us the land of the Dunadian, then I, and all my warriors, and all the Black Numenorians, pledge our fealty to you."

As one, the lines of men kneeled before the Black Captain, placing their weapons at their feet.

"We are yours to command," said the man, looking up again at the wraith.

"Witch King."

**A/N: **Well there it is. I hope you all enjoyed it. Please review, and I hope you enjoy the chapters to come.

**NOTE ON THE NAMES OF THE WITCH KING: **Many names are used for the Witch King in this story. The name "Isilmo" is the name he used when he was a prince of Numenor. When he went into exile, he took up the name "Er-Murazor". He was named the Black Captain of the Nazgul when he was insnared by the ring, and it was during the War in the North that he became known as the "Witch King of Angmar".


	9. The Hammer Falls

**A/N: **I am so sorry it has taken so long to get the next chapter going. The last few months haven't been easy on me. But at last, here it is, Chapter 9. Enjoy and please review.

**Disclaimer: **I am not Tolkien, and I do not own anything of his.

**The Hammer Falls**

Winter after winter passed, each one colder than the last. The northern lands covered in snow, the passes blocked up, the roads closed off. And in the shadows of the mountains of Angmar, the Witch King's empire silently grew. Massive and now deadly Snow Trolls now guarded the entrance to the ravine around the settlement, wielding iron maces and broadswords. Highly experienced and well equipped Black Numenorian warriors trained in sheltered caverns around the ravine. And in the centre, standing tall and impenetrable, stood the massive figure of the rebuilt stronghold, Carn Dum.

In the high, cold towers of iron, the Witch King sat on his black throne, plotting and scheming. On his left, the massive figure of Rogash, a constant bodyguard to the Dread-Lord, towering over all his other subjects. On his right, the ever present shadow of Morgomir, lending advice, commanding the forces, and quietly dealing with anyone foolish enough to question the revered Witch King. And in the dark chambers deep within the stronghold, he disappeared for hours, working tirelessly on a project known only to himself, his Captain, and a few very select Black Numenorian subjects.

Growing in strength and numbers, Angmar lay low, watching their enemy crumble from within, waiting for the moment to strike. Every year, the Witch King sent spies into Arnor, spreading fear, uncertainty and discord through the land, spreading a mistrust of their leaders, corrupting the barons and lords that ruled, sowing the seeds of rebellion. In Rhuadur the arm of the Witch King was longest, and as he watched, he deemed that soon, the time would be right to strike.

*******

Argeleb, Prince of Arthedian, hurried to the bedchambers of his father, wringing his hands as he went. The King had come up with a dreadful fever, and his health had deteriorated rapidly in the week that followed. He was now in a critical condition, and Argeleb feared for his father's life.

He reached the entrance and knocked once. The door was opened by the head surgeon. Inzor was one of the best healers of the kingdom, but this had strangely been beyond him.

"My Prince," he murmured, bowing low.

"How is he?" queried Argeleb, his voice wobbling slightly as he glanced over to his father. The King was deathly pale. His eyes were closed.

"I'm afraid, Milord, that he won't make it. I've given him something to ease the pain and discomfort but…" the surgeon trailed of, looking up at the stricken man.

"I'm sorry Milord," Inzor said, bowing his head. "I have failed you."

Argeleb shook his head.

"You have done all you could Inzor. For this I thank you."

He bowed low, and then strode quickly to his father.

"Ada?" he whispered, using the old elvish term that was still used among the Dunedain royalty. "Ada? It's me."

The old King's eyes fluttered open.

"Ah yes," he muttered. "I'm glad you have come."

He looked at his son, staring him directly in the eye like he did when he was a child.

"My time is up Argeleb."

There was a grim finality in the way the King said this, announcing his doom with weary acceptance.

Argeleb held back his tears. He was Argeleb, Prince, soon to be King of Arthedain, and he would not cry.

"Yes Ada," he said quietly, grasping his father's hand in his own.

"Then we have little time," said Mavegil, his voice growing stronger for a moment. "You must listen carefully, for what I am about to tell you is of extreme importance, greater perhaps, than you will initially realise."

Argeleb looked at his father. Through the dying eyes, he could see a small light of determination, the last remnant of the old flair of wisdom and drive that King Mavegil was famous for. He nodded solemly, every ounce of his attention now devoted to the man lying before him.

"The kingdom," he began, pausing for a moment as his body was shaken by a feverish shiver, "…is unstable."

Argeleb eyes widened in surprise. "Surely father-"

"Do not argue, I have not the time," his father reprimanded. "The nation of the Dunedian has been split, and as a result is fragile enough to burst apart at the slightest gust. You must do what I could not. Unite Arnor under the sceptre once again. You have always stirred the people. You have there trust. You have their loyalty. Bring them under a single banner while there is time. I fear a storm is coming, and this broken nation as it is cannot survive the impact. Make it strong again. Bring the Dunedain tribes together, or our people will surely come to an end. Save our nation. Save our land. Save our people. Save yourself."

Argeleb stared at his father. Despite his weakness, and intensity was in him of the like Argeleb had never seen before. He bowed his head and nodded.

"I will father," he said. "And I vow that all my descendents will do the same."

The King smiled. "Thankyou my son. And now I must linger no longer. Goodbye Argeleb."

The Prince rested his head on his father's chest. But he did not cry. He was the new King of Arthedain, and he would not cry.

*******

The news of the death of King Mavegil of Arthedian reached Angmar within the week. Less than half a year later later, the Witch King's spies announced that the new King of Arthedian had claimed all the Kingdoms of the Dunedian under the sceptre of Annuminas after many months of debate in the courts of Fornost.

"The time is right," hissed Morgomir, standing beside the Witch King, gazing over the masses of warriors and war machines under their command.

"Yes," said the Witch King, turning from the balcony towards his chamber.

"Send a message to Rhuadar. Have Rogash prepare the troops. We march at dawn."

*******

The noble district of Rhuadar lay quiet and peaceful as evening descended. Old fat barons put aside scrolls and staggered off to bed, mumbling and rubbing their eyes. Overpaid sentries sat slumbering at their posts, unfit and unprepared from years of inaction. They failed to see the dark swarms approaching the buildings, surrounding the expanse of the small district in a dark circle.

Suddenly the air was alive with screams. Flaming torches were lit, blades drawn, and rioting villagers swarmed the area, overwhelming in sheer numbers. Sentries and guards put up a feeble fight and were slaughtered where they stood before even drawing their weapons. Nobles and barons were stabbed to death in their beds, or cut down mercilessly as they stood in their halls begging for mercy. The villagers tore through the streets, burning as they went, slaying all that stood in their path. Noblewomen were raped and beaten to death, dragged screaming from their houses and shamed openly in the streets. The district was ablaze, crumbling to ashes as the peasants charged through, hacking and burning without remorse.

When the morning light peaked over the Misty Mountians, the city was nothing but dust and smoke. The entire peasant population of Rhuadar stood or sat in the city, blood-drunk after the massacre. Standing apon a fallen tower stood Hwaldar, the newly appointed chieftain of Rhuadar and the peasant folk. He was a tall, thickset man, clad in fur skin with wild hair and beard that showed the beginnings of grey streaks. In his right hand he held a massive broadaxe with an air of cool confidence. His keen dark eyes scanned the horizon.

A young man approached him.

"Hey Chief," he drawled. "The new King's got word. He's com'm for us."

"Good," said Hwaldar quietly. "Send a message to Angmar. Tell them to move in."

******

Morgomir sensed them before he saw them. He could feel their minds, their consciousnesses amassed together. A large bulk of them felt dimmer, less intelligent than the rest, from which Morgomir inferred that the force was headed with cavalry. Taking this into account, he guessed that the force was nearly six thousand strong, quite a gathering for a nation still in the early days of its unity. Morgomir pictured the force in his shadowy minds eye. Tall, strong and proud warriors, banners flowing in the light morning breeze, tall men with glittering helms on horseback, armour glinting in the sun, shining like the jewelled armour of Numenor of old….

Morgomir shook his head, clearing his mind of the picture. It did not do to think of such things. Instead the wraith focused his mind on the King. He would be at the head of the force, Morgomir was sure of it. He quickly gathered his knowledge of the man. He was young, he knew, an excellent swordsman and a much loved monarch. But as a battle commander, Morgomir knew, the youth King was woefully inexperienced. It was this fact that the cunning Nazgul would use to his advantage.

Morgomir looked up as Argeleb's forces appeared over the hill. They were indeed, a magnificent sight. Their green and white banners blowing in the wind, they marched proudly, their weapons held aloft in confidence.

And many are the mighty fallen, thought Morgomir, and then grimaced ruefully as he realised the irony.

The army approached the outskirts of the smoking city. Morgomir could see men emerging on the walls, clutching their weapons in the event of combat. The hill chieftain Hwaldar was among them, gazing out at the oncoming force.

The King called a halt as his men neared the city. Looking up to the walls, he called out to the rebel villagers. Morgomir attuned his hearing outward to catch Argeleb's voice.

"People of Rhuadar," called the King of Arnor. "You have been charged with treason against your lord's and country. You are to be taken back to the capital to await your sentence."

Morgomir saw Hwaldar rise from the walls.

"You call us traitors youth? These fat nobles were no better than yourself, claiming what they want and stealing from the so-called lower class. You may have a sceptre in your hand and a star on your forehead, will never have all of Arnor _boy_."

Morgomir saw the young king stiffen. Morgomir smiled. Hwaldar was quite a character. He would be very useful over the next few years.

"Very well. If you choose to split our nation and descend to the evil that threatens to tear us apart then so be it."

Hwaldar snarled. "Evil? You know nothing of evil Argeleb. But you soon will. Very soon."

"Enough!" the King roared. "Knights of Arnor, FORWARD!"

The frontline of cavalry charged towards the burnt city, raising their swords and spears and shouting war cries.

Morgomir looked back at his superior. The Witch King stood silently watching the scene.

"Move in," he whispered, still staring ahead of him.

Morgomir nodded, making a silent sign, and his troops began to move out from their hidden position in the trees.

"And Morgomir," called the Witch King. "Deal with the King personally".

*******

Argeleb lead his battalion of cavalry towards the city to meet the peasants that were swarming out to meet them. His pride had been stung by the hill chieftain, and for that he wanted to crush the man, but he would not have acted on the rash impulse if he hadn't already known how important it was to crush this rebellion, even if it meant eradicating Rhuadar completely. The words of his father rang in his ears: "_Unite Arnor under the sceptre once again._" Argeleb felt an urgency as he rode towards the oncoming peasants, an importance to this battle. But even then, he hesitated. How many of these men were simple farmers that had been bribed or threatened into this mad revolt? How many of them had families waiting for them at home?

Argeleb shook his head. There could be no such thoughts going into a battle. This was the only way, he told himself. Crush these few and save so many others.

Suddenly Argeleb could hear screams. He was so surprised he reined his horse. He had not yet reached the enemy lines. Dimly he realised he had just crippled the effectiveness of the charge, but he was too distracted to care. Instead he turned to the rear of his army, and was paralysed with horror from what he saw.

Both his rear and his flanks were being assaulted by an army of thousands, seemingly materializing out of nowhere. Thousands of men in black helmets and armour were hacking at his lines, and charging in behind them were… were those _trolls_?

Then Argeleb heard the clash of weapons again, this time closer, and realised the rebels were now attacking from the front. His heart fell as he realised he was almost surrounded. But how had it happened? There could only be one explanation. The hill chieftain must have made secret league with this mysterious army. The King could see him now, standing just outside the field of battle, coordinating attacks. A rage filled Argeleb of the likes he had never encountered before. He didn't understand it, but he didn't care. All he knew was that every fibre in his being wanted to crush the stout, unkempt middle-aged piece of scum until he was ground into the dust. Screaming a cry of bloodlust, Argeleb rode full pelt towards the city gates, heedless of everything around him, crushing mercilessly the men he had only minutes ago pitied as peasants and farmers with families. He uged his horse faster, his eyes fixed on the figure standing arrogantly outside the field.

Then suddenly, Argeleb's world turned upside down. He felt his horse stumble, felt himself flying through the air, his helm flying from his head, felt the dull hard impact as he crashed on the ground, denting his armour and knocking the wind out of him. For a few seconds he blacked out, consciousness threatening to leave him, but he steadied himself and tried to glean a picture of his surroundings. The first thing he discovered was that a figure stood over him.

"Get up, young King," said the figure.

Argeleb would've once again boiled at another reference to his age, but the cold voice chilled him to the bone. It was the strangest voice he had ever heard, raspy yet soft and silky, whispery and weak and yet full of athourity. The king staggered to his feet, trying to see through blurred vision. A tall figure cloaked entirely in black stood before him, face invisible behind its hood. The figure moved towards him, and Argeleb was engulfed in only one emotion: fear.

There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. All around Argeleb was a blur except for the figure standing before him which was surely a demon wearing the face of doom. The King was frozen in fear, unable to move, barely able to think. He shivered, realising how ignorant he had been of death, the horror of losing the world he knew and loved. This monster was surely to take him and rip him apart, take him to a place of evil and death. He was about to collapse with the terror when the demon spoke.

"You are a disgrace young King."

Argeleb looked up, squinting up into surely the face of his death.

"You have failed your people and your country when they needed you most. You have failed them as a King and as a leader. You have always been less than your ancestors, and you showed on the battlefield today what you truly are. Instead of worrying about the fate of your army, you let your selfish rage take over. You abandoned your men to go after a man who _scorned_ you, instead of reorganizing an army in need of leadership. Your indecision as you were surrounded has already cost you the battle. You are weak, young King, weak and childish. You show nothing of the noble blood of your father, who you also failed in your slow action to bring the kingdoms of Arnor together. Here, weak King, is the price of your failure."

For a moment Argeleb's vision blacked, and then he was staring at vast burnt plains, corpses strewn across the landscape. He saw the dome of Fornost broken and the Palantir's of Anuminas corrupted under some foreign power of evil. He saw women raped and burnt, children roasted on stakes and displayed in the courtyards of the King. He saw villages razed to ashes, cattle eaten alive, and the entire land covered in a shroud of darkness. Argeleb reeled in horror as he realised that he was seeing the future, the consequences of loosing this battle, the consequences of all his inadequacy.

If there was anything that could be worse than his fear, it was his shame. Shame for his non-success, for his selfishness and his dishonour. He had failed everyone. He had failed his father! That was the worst of it. The dying man had put his last faith in his son, and Argeleb had as good as betrayed it. He would go down as a disgrace to the race of men, and the King who had doomed his nation. He knelt before his doom, despair engulfing him and dimming his senses. And then he felt hot metal penetrate his breastplate and pierce his skin. Pain engulfed him, but the despair remained. King Argeleb I died trembling and weeping, reduced to a sobbing wreck. As Morgomir withdrew his sword, the man hit the ground with a thud of finality.

*******

The Witch King walked among the dead.

It was an intriguing feeling for him, understanding it but not quite being part of it. The dead, in truth, were not unlike the living now, beings in an apart world, something he could decipher but not quite touch. It was bittersweet in that way, he thought.

A being interrupted his musings. Definitely living, he thought after a moment.

"Witch King," said Nurath, bowing low. "We have rounded up the last of them. They are prisoners awaiting your judgement."

The Witch King spoke not a word, but walked slowly towards the kneeling men a few metres away.

Isilmo stared down at them, looking inside them for particular qualities and traits.

"You," he said quietly, pointing to one trembling man. He was hauled to his feet.

"Return to your capital soldier. Tell him the Witch King of Angmar has come forth. Tell them that your kingdom is finished. Fight or flee or cower, there is no hope. The North Kingdom of Arnor will fall."

He turned again to Nurath.

"Give this man a fresh steed and enough rations to get him to Fornost. He will not deter."

Nurath nodded.

"And the rest?"

"Kill them."

**A/N: **Well there it is. Much longer this time. More chapters will come soon, so keep checking! As I said before, sooo sorry it took so long. Please keep giving feedback! Cheers everyone!


	10. Darkness Within the Light

**A/N: **Ok firstly I am sooooo sorry it has taken this long to get this one up and ready to go, but to be fair, it took a lot of work, and I have been very busy. I hope it's length makes up for it. This is a really important chapter in terms of the scale of the story and where it's going to go. But hey, you really don't want to sit around reading this, and it's a miracle if you're reading it at all. So you can stop reading this now and start reading the story. Now. Right now. Really, I'm done. Completely. I have nothing more to say. At all. Really.

**Disclaimer: **Yeah, yeah, you know the drill, I'm not Tolkien, I don't own his works, stuff like that.

**Darkness Within the Light**

No place in Middle Earth was guarded more securely than the White City of Minas Tirith.

There was one way in, one way out. No secret passages or gates that could be discovered, no crack or crevice that could be infiltrated. The guards would not be bribed, no matter the price. The main gate was manned by no less than thirty Gondorian sentries, all perfectly disciplined and regularly rotated. Every individual was searched going both in and out along with any cargo. Identities were checked and rechecked, random house inspections were carried out frequently. As well as the sentries guarding the gate, there were a further set of watchers on the floor above, watching every coming and going. Every detail of the day was delivered to the next man on guard duty, so that two seemingly separate occurrences wouldn't be missed. The only usual comings and goings in the city were traders from Gondorian provinces, and any merchants carrying anything slightly suspicious was sent away immediately. Anything more than slightly suspicious and they were arrested. Needless to say the White City was free of the black market.

Beggars were not admitted into the city. Caution is more important than mercy, was the statement all guards used when one tried to enter. They gave them enough food and clothing to get them to a nearby province, but they were never allowed inside the city walls.

Gondor was prepared even for the worst, even if they didn't fully believe in it any more. Gondorian mages were stationed at the gates to detect any sign of contact with the dark powers. What little knowledge the elves had passed to the men of the west of the powers in the world had been treasured and guarded jealously, passed down through the noble families of the Numenorians even after the fall of their great kingdom. They were by no means highly powerful, and most of the powers they did have specialized in healing, but they did have enough talent to detect the evils and magics of Sauron. The mages were cleverly disguised. Dressed just like any other sentry, they silently observed, using their extra senses to fish out any signs of Power. And this, Coros knew well, was his biggest obstacle.

He watched the city, standing alone on the fields of Pelennor, invisible to the eyes of mortals, mage or otherwise. He watched the guard change, watched them go about their daily routine, memorizing their system. No security setup was perfect, Coros knew. As he gazed across the grassy plains towards the towering structure, he formulated his method of entry, and, even more importantly, exit.

He turned away, satisfied. He would have to wait, of course. A day or so perhaps, before another large trading group came through.

Coros passed down the small hill leading up to the Fields, not quite walking, not quite gliding, more slithering among the long grasses. He reached a small area of bushland just east from the fields. From here he would sense any newcomers nearing the city.

He huddled himself under a low tree, immersing himself in a dreamlike state, not sleeping, but drifting into a deep meditation, lost in his own consciousness.

Wrapped in a twilight element, asleep to the world but with wide awake senses, the mind of the insightful Nazgul drifted. In these moments, these silent hours of solitude where nothing disturbed, his conscience was troubled to no end by the whisperings in his own head. He was plagued with confused mutterings and blurry visions, disconnected images and distant sounds. Memories, he wondered? Or the ghost of a long-dead mind?

As much as they unsettled him however, they also intrigued him. It was almost as though they called to him, trying to take him somewhere he could not go. The ghost of his past perhaps? That was what Coros believed. He had no memories of his past before the ring, and yet he still remembered things. That was the way he always thought about it, on the few occasions upon which he had the time. There was a fine line to it. He remembered facts, but that was all. He remembered where he had lived, who his parents had been, the extent of his kingdom and the number of lords in his council. But it was all blank. He thought of them as he would just another set of facts, like that he knew there was a dying piece of grass near his feet. He thought of the facts with no emotion, no opinion. He didn't have the capacity to do so. The world to him was black and white in principle, but with shades of grey wavering in the background, that confused him but didn't hold his attention long enough to gain a proper interest or curiosity in them. These times of shadows and darkness were the best and worse parts of the Nazgul's existence. Unbearable yet beautiful, and yet just as he thought that, the idea was whisked away like a leaf blown away in a gust of wind.

Coros shook his head. Such things were beyond him. He shouldn't allow himself to have these thoughts now at any rate. Thinking like that was tiresome, and he needed completely alert senses for the next few days. He wouldn't think, he told himself. He would just listen, and let it all brush over him. Bowing his head, Coros let go of the barriers of his mind and succumbed to the voices once more.

Coros opened his eyes. It was late afternoon, he saw, probably one day since he had been inspecting the city. What had woken him was a group of consciousnesses nearby approaching the city. He looked around to inspect the group. Oh they were merchants alright, and lots of them. This group, Coros thought, would be ideal for what he had in mind. He moved quickly towards them still unseen to men, his eyes scanning over each man, weighing them up and choosing his target. He spotted a middle aged man with a slightly uneven beard, walking with a hunch, carrying a sack of goods. Coros almost laughed. The man was shifty enough on his own.

Moving so he was almost directly behind the man, he started muttering morgul spells under his breath. The man tensed for a moment, but otherwise made no outward sign that he had been taken over. Coros continued his muttering, casting spell after spell on the man.

He had already cast easily enough enchantments in moments to have him do what was necessary, but still Coros kept going. It was essential that he would be such a beacon of magic that the mage would recognise it instantly. As they neared the gates however, Coros ceased. He could not use magic this near to the mage for fear of being spotted.

The gates creaked open and as they entered they were surrounded by soldiers. The traders seemed to know the procedure, and obediently stepped into the lines, allowing the sentries to check their bags. Then Coros's merchant stepped forward.

Coros saw the mage's eyes widen and he knew it had worked.

"SEIZE HIM!" the mage shrieked, pointing at the man dramatically.

No less than fifteen sentries converged on one man, spear butts beating down upon him. All was chaos. The traders and merchants started screaming and broke their line. The remaining soldiers struggled to hold back the oncoming panicking crowd as the others subdued their target. The merchant put up a fight, hitting out at the men and screaming intelligible words. Then the metal flat of a sword hit him directly on the forehead and he slumped forward, concussed and unconscious.

The mage stood over him, staring into the man. He had never seen so much power in his life. The man must be either possessed or simply extremely powerful. And yet why had he not used his power? The mage was confused, but he decided to save it for later. They needed to lock this man up and drug him. He turned to the guards.

"This one's for the cells. All you need to know is that he is very dangerous. I intend to deliver a report to the king himself. Now take him away."

The men obeyed, as they were trained to do. The mage's eyes swept the street one last time. There were no more magical signs. He turned away to finish the inspection of the group. Gondorian soldiers never walked out on a job half done.

Coros had moved the moment the mage's eyes had locked onto the man. He was already clear of the guards when they converged, pulling off a spectacular roll between two sentries. He had bargained on the mage's attention being distracted long enough for him to make it through the ring of guards unseen. After that it was just a matter of leaving the area and moving deeper into the city. He had slipped into an empty house and found some dark robes in order to walk like a citizen in the city. Now that he was inside, he was much safer, and the guards would be less suspicious. Still, he moved with purpose but casually, blending into the normal crowds. He wasn't the only one wearing a hood, as many scholars and even some peasants dressed that way. Night was falling, he observed. After dark would be the best moment to move, he believed, when the general public was in bed and not wandering. The libraries would be clear. The libraries were his destination.

He didn't know his way around the city, having never been inside before, but there was more than one way to navigate an unfamiliar area. The scholars would be heading to libraries frequently, so Coros simply mingled with them and followed their crowd.

It was well after dark when Coros first entered the libraries of Minas Tirith.

The halls were huge. Shelves upon shelves stuffed to the brim with scrolls and writings about the history of Middle Earth and the people of Numenor.

Would the scrolls he needed be easily accessible? Somehow Coros doubted it. The histories of the Last Alliance had to be locked up. So it was just a matter of hoodwinking the Keeper. Coros approached the old man behind the desk.

"I wish to view several classified writings," he said quietly, softening his voice, making it agreeable to the human ear.

"On which subject?" asked the man absently, not looking up.

"The Reign and Fall of Sauron," replied Coros, a slight hiss entering his voice.

Now the man looked up, jerking sharply.

"And _what _authority may I ask do you have to view these documents?" he wheezed.

Coros was grateful for the ever present rule of quiet in places of study, or this man may have drawn a lot of attention to him.

The Nazgul rolled a coin across the table, which the old scholar caught up. It was a Numenorian coin, probably one of the last of its type. Coros could see the eyes of the man light up. Scholarly pay was most likely not high compared to the military, most likely one of the reasons soldiers and philosophers in Gondor didn't get on very well. Coros knew the thought process of the learned one. Once he took the bribe, there would be no going back. He could never tell the guards he had taken it for fear of being locked up, or even executed. And yet he feared to rebuff this stranger. There was something unnatural about him. But did that mean that he was up to no good?

Coros rolled another coin onto the table, perfectly calm.

The Keeper made his decision.

"Follow me," he muttered.

Gandalf leaned on his staff, standing in the middle of the bridge leading to the city of Osgiliath. Their journey had been long, but at last they had reached the Gondorian capital. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Not for the first time, he wondered why he and his companions had been put in Middle Earth in the shape of old, frail mortals. It was a good disguise, he conceded, but it took a toll on your body after a day of hiking. He expected he would find some sort of spell to counter these irritating side effects, but right now the most important thing was tracking down both the ring and the Enemy himself.

Now he stared ahead towards the sea of white stone that was Ozgiliath. From his vantage position he could see the towers and domes that poked out above the walls, glimmering faintly in the hot summer sun that beat down upon the Plains of Pelenor. Gandalf could just glimpse in the distance the great Dome of Ozgiliath, with the banner of the White Tree waving lightly in the small breeze.

Saruman stepped up beside him, his dark eyes scanning the towers and domes of the great white river city. He frowned.

"This is not what I was lead to expect."

Gandalf nodded, agreeing. The city certainly lacked the grandeur they had heard tell of, nor, or so it appeared from the lack of noise, the bulging population they had presumed would reside in the capital of the greatest city of Men in Middle Earth.

The five Istari stood now in a line, gazing toward the white structures that stretched for miles.

"Well," said Radagast, breaking the silence, "shall we enter?"

The five crossed the bridge and ventured towards the city gate. The watches on the tower looked at them strangely, some laying their hands lightly on their weapons, but the Istari walked forward purposefully, unperturbed by the suspicious eyes of the guards.

Then the gates were opening and a dozen men at arms stepped out, blocking the path of the travellers.

"Halt," said one. "State your purpose in Ozgiliath."

The Istari glanced at each other and simultaneously made their decision.

Saruman stepped forward, arms out wide.

"Fear not, noble Men of Gondor. We mean no harm to you. We are messengers from the West, in the Lands Beyond the Sea. We wish an audience with your King, and to reside here perhaps for a few days. Grant us entry or fetch another to do so if you have not the authority, but do so swiftly, for the darkness moves constantly and we wish not to be hindered in our mission."

The Maia spoke with courtesy and without aggression, but power seemed to reverberate with every word. The guards stood still, struck with awe. The speaker nodded jerkily and stumbled back through the gate. After several minutes he re-emerged, followed by a man with greying hair and a large build, his forearms rippling with muscles that spoke of years of wielding a broadsword. He had a kindly face and greyish-blue eyes, and he walked in long strides and with a steady gait.

"Peace to you, messengers of the West," he began. "My name is Lord Urmandil, and I am the Keeper of Ozgiliath. My King is not in Ozgiliath, but resides in the White City of Minas Tirith for the summer, as had been the custom of Gondor in recent years. I gladly offer you any hospitality you desire, but if you seek immediate audience with His Majesty then I suggest you go west to Minas Tirith, which is barely an hour's ride from here."

Saruman bowed. "Thankyou Lord Urmandil, but we will continue to Minas Tirith. Our work is what is most important. Perhaps we will one day venture again this way again, but until then, farewell."

Urmandil smiled.

"My lords, I confess originally I doubted your story, but the power and grace of your words let me see the truth. Peace be upon you and may your journey be fruitful."

Saruman bowed low.

"Thankyou again. May the blessings of the Valar go with you."

With that, the five Istari turned and headed West to continue their quest.

Akorahil huddled himself against a nearby tree, watching from a distance the gates of Ozgiliath. He had been following the five Maia messengers since Eriador, keeping obscure enough to remain undetected, but close enough to pick up any important conversation. He had discovered little more than their destination, and had resolved not to follow them into Ozgiliath, knowing the King would not be there.

Now he watched the five Maia turn away and head back over the bridge. Most likely they were heading towards Minas Tirith. They passed by his hiding place without a glance. Akorahil quickly assessed the situation. Entering the White City would be the most difficult part, and a task he would certainly have to be invisible to mortals for. He shrugged off his dark cloak, along with his long sword and various daggers. He would retrieve these items later if necessary, but that was not important. Only the objective was important. Locking his eyes onto his quarry, he moved out of the shade of the tangled trees into open ground, his frame invisible to any observer.

Coros sat at the polished oak desk, his hands that only he could see running over the old yellow parchment. He sat in silence, contemplating what he had just read. The candles around him flickered, casting light over his hunched form. In front of him lay the writings of Isildur regarding the siege of Barad-dur and the records of the events that followed. It was strange reading it here, now history, a thousand years after being there himself. Seeing things from the point of view of his enemies was not something Coros was used to doing, and it unsettled him slightly. But he was wandering. The important things were the facts. Isildur had kept the Ring; that much was clear. He had been seduced by it also, Coros could tell by his writing. He would never have given it up willingly, not for the whole world. So he had taken it with him then? To Arnor? And that, Coros realised, was the question. The records distinctly indicated that when the war was over, he had left Gondor, and then that was it. No confirmation as to whether or not he arrived at his fathers kingdom, no date of death, nothing. A complete dead end. Coros was stumped. Isildur had a few months ago become the most important and famed leader of the West, and then he apparently suddenly disappeared of the face of the earth. There wasn't even a mention of his name after that. Why? For all Coros's excellent deductive skills, he couldn't fathom it. It was like there was a page missing, and yet Coros was sure that wasn't the case. The Gondorians kept all their records in this library. He had tried looking under different subjects, different names, and yet every time, not a trace.

Coros roused himself. He had been here too long. He had to move. He stood and made for the doorway leading back to the main antechamber of the libraries, stopping only to scoop up the various scrolls he had been reading. He needed to gather his thoughts, work out what was miss–

Coros stopped dead. He sensed something. Another powerful presence within his immediate area. Coros slipped instinctively into nearest shadow, concealing himself from general view. His eyes scanned the rows of shelves carefully, and then with a jolt, he found his target.

Who was staring _straight back at him._

It was Akorahil.

Coros knew to keep calm. There could be a hundred possibilities explaining his fellow's presence. If something was seriously wrong, Coros's senses would've already told him so. The most important thing was to not draw attention to themselves.

After a few moments, Akorahil motioned towards an isle. The slightest of movements. Coros slowly but casually followed the former deeper into the dark forest of writings. Akorahil stopped and placed himself at a nearby table. Coros sat opposite.

They stared at each other, both assessing the situation. Then Coros spoke.

"Greetings, Akorahil. What brings you into the mouth of the beast?"

Akorahil held his gaze.

"They're here," he whispered.

Coros understood immediately.

"The Maia?" he queried. "All of them?"

"They seek council with the King," was the reply. "I intended to listen in on their conversation, but security on the top level puts the gate to shame. I found no possible way up. Instead I chose to wait here until I sensed their return. Doubtless they will wish to enter the libraries for writings on Isildur."

"For that, they are too late," stated Coros. "I have the writings with me now, having spent many hours studying them myself."

Coros saw the other look up slightly.

"Then we may yet repair this situation, if your dealings in the city are done," he said quickly. "Coros, they intend to enter Mordor next. We cannot allow that. Our master is weak and we have no defence. We must find a way to divert their course, distract them from their current past, or all the work we have done in these months will be lost."

Coros nodded slowly, taking it all in. It was indeed, grievous news. If the Maia entered Mordor it would all be over. Their shroud of mystery would be gone, and their master in grave peril. Sauron, in his current frail form, would stand no chance against five powerful Maia in their prime. A few Nazgul in their prime however, given the right circumstances, might…

"I may have an answer to our situation," Coros began, "however it may require many of us to put our current missions on hold. As you suggested, we require a distraction. This I believe, must be ourselves. One of us will lead the five away from Mordor, perhaps north or south or west. We must show ourselves, so that we become the imminent threat and the first priority. We draw them then to a fighting ground of our choice, and with the help of our fellows, we may be able to subdue them."

Beneath his hood, Coros knew Akorahil was smiling.

"Once again Coros, you show your shrewdness. Your plan is perfect. I think the best option is to lead them north, towards our friends Khamul and Dakian. With their help, we may be able to defeat them."

Coros inclined his head. "It is settled then. Now all that is left is to spring the trap. You must find some way of attracting the attention of the five without being captured. The more disturbance, the better. Steal a horse and then exit the city. If luck holds, they will swallow the bait and follow you. As soon as they're gone, I will exit the city quietly, and send messages north to Khamul, Dakian, and perhaps Ji Indur alerting them of the situation. I will follow in due course."

Akorahil nodded. "It shall be done. I will strike at dusk tonight. Enough time to plan and prepare. And Coros, do not allow anyone to be aware of your presence. If you intend to keep the documents you have to find what you are looking for, then everyone must believe that I, and I alone was here."

"Of course," replied Coros, "Now go, fulfil the will of Sauron."

Akorahil stood, nodded slightly and departed.

Coros remained seated, considering the exchange. Akorahil was right, the most important thing was to divert the Maia from Mordor at all costs. He ruefully realised that this applied to him also; the hunt for the ring would have to wait. He glanced down at the documents poking out of the pocket of his robes. It would be best, he decided, to keep them. The path ahead might be shadowed for the present, but those ancient writings might hold crucial pieces of information that would connect the dots when he knew more. He expected that records like these were rarely dug up; it might be years before anyone realised they were gone. Even more importantly, by taking them he would keep them from any of the Istari that escaped their grasp and returned to this city in their own search for the lost weapon of his master. Confident in his decision, Coros rose and headed towards the exit. He guessed it would be better to be far away when Akorahil made his move. Slipping quietly through the doorway, Coros stepped out into the midday sunlight and began to mingle with the crowds…

The Istari walked through the streets of Minas Tirith, deep in muttered discussion.

"We need to head straight to Mordor," insisted Radagast. "My senses tell me all the evils that are besieging the Free Peoples is coming from there."

"What evidence do you have support that?" Saruman argued, glancing around to make sure he was not being overheard. "The evil is coming from the Easterlings and Southrons, we have to go to them first. Maybe their wrath is being channelled by Sauron, but we can't go charging into Mordor without being absolutely sure!"

"And how long might that be?" hissed Gandalf. "The longer we wait, the greater the danger becomes, we cannot afford to be indescis–

The five were almost knocked flat by a horse pelting at full speed along the cobbled pathway. Gandalf scrambled to his feet and looked up.

A nightmarish vision stood before him, a towering robed figure on a black horse, a jagged blade naked in his hand. The figure spoke, and its voice was like the sound of metal grinding against metal.

"There is more to the World than you understand, messengers of the West. This world is older than you, and holds dark and evil secrets that you could not comprehend. There is more than one evil power in Middle Earth. Did you think you could just enter a land you do not know of and take control? You have no idea what you have walked into, feeble Maiar! You will come to regret the day you entered this land…"

As Gandalf stared up at the horrific creature, he felt something he had never felt before in his long years: fear. How it ailed him. It gripped him like icy daggers, piercing his stomach, ripping his insides apart. He felt it close in on his mind, a shroud of darkness falling over his eyes…

And then suddenly it was gone. Gandalf felt weak. His legs shook and he slumped against a section of white wall that surrounded him. After a few moments he looked around, seeing his companions in a similar state. Saruman was first to his feet.

"I think," he began shakily, "we have a new destination. One by one the others slowly nodded. The five made their way back up the hill, intending to tell the king of the encounter, and their decision to follow the strange creature. Gandalf slowly began to pull his thoughts together. They would have to pick up the tracks of the beast and continue until they caught up with it. Whatever the thing was, it had to be a threat. And yet, Gandalf couldn't help but feel that there was more to this. That they had overlooked some crucial detail. But then, that's what the figure had been saying, hadn't it? Yes, this was the right thing to do. Many years later, Gandalf would come to regret this decision.

Within several minutes, the five had told their story to the King, who agreed that the first priority was to follow this demon, and that all else, including the visit to the libraries to gain information about the whereabouts of the ring, would have to wait. Within the hour, the Istari had left the city.

Half an hour later, Coros quietly slipped outside the walls himself during another merchant arrival, having drugged the meal of the mage. He stole a horse from a neighbouring Gondorian province, and set out after the Maiar.

Suddenly, the hunters had become the hunted.

**A/N: **Hope you all liked it. I will try to get some more going soon, but I can't make too many promises, you know how life is eh? Thanks, and please review!


End file.
